


look alive, sunshine

by alltimecharlo



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flirty Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pet Names, Pining, Protectiveness, Sharing a Bed, Stubborn George, This is a super light hearted take on a spy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-21 19:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30026799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltimecharlo/pseuds/alltimecharlo
Summary: Agent 404: George Davidson, MI5Agent Dream: Clay [undisclosed], CIAMission: Locate Agent Sapnap. Dissolve a notorious crime syndicate.How hard can it be?or, the dnf spy au you didn’t know you needed
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 210





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys!! 
> 
> i’ve been absolutely in love with the idea of writing a dnf spy au for so, so long and i’m so glad to finally begin posting it <3 
> 
> updates will be weekly- it’s gonna be a pretty long one!!
> 
> i hope you enjoy the first chapter :)

George’s morning begins as usual. 

That is, it involves being packed into and squashed against the walls of the run-down elevator, very nearly dropping the coffee he’s collected after exiting the tube station. 

He really does think that the agency should invest in a more suave entrance to one of the most important and top secret buildings in the country, but then again, he guesses that that’s kind of the point.

MI5’s headquarters reside underneath London Docklands; not the modern, high tech part with all of the large cranes and cruise ships, but rather the older and industrialised area filled with empty wooden warehouses and minimum wage workers heaving ropes on the daily.

The entrance itself is, of course, hidden away and disguised to all apart from those who have been shown and granted access via the company’s ID badges that they force everyone to wear. Even the secret agents, which George finds rather ironic. 

At the very back of one of the smaller warehouses that’s tucked in between the nooks and crannies of Canary Wharf, lies the the door to an elevator that descends more than a hundred feet down into the earth, HQ snaking outwards in all directions under the heavy traffic of London and the stagnant waters of the Thames. 

The doors are slightly rusty, and creak reliably upon sliding open and exposing the rather off-putting cream walls decorated with only a couple of tiny mirrors. 

It’s the kind of decor that was only fashionable in the eighties; George is half-convinced that it’s been left that way on purpose to further deter anyone who somehow manages to slip past the badge scan from entering.

The out-dated nature of the elevator into HQ also carries with it the problem of lack of space. If you turn up anytime between eight and nine am, expect to be pressed up against about twenty other people as they desperately try to squeeze in beside you in order to avoid waiting ten minutes more for the elevator to finally return.

This is George’s exact current situation, and it’s no one’s fault but his own for sleeping through his alarm for the _third_ time this week.

He’s been told by many of his friends before that he’s a ridiculously heavy sleeper, but he would argue that although, yes, sometimes it detriments him, it can come in really bloody useful on missions when he’s forced to lay on the hard and cold rock of a cave to sleep and he manages to nod off straight away.

This time round, he would also attribute his groggy state for the past few days to the mass amounts of intelligence he’s been asked to gather on the suspicious comings and goings of one of the larger ports just down the river from HQ. 

Even though George has been pouring over hours of CCTV footage and stolen shipping companies’ import logs, he still can’t seem to pin down anything that’s completely out of place, nor why the agency seems so concerned with that port in particular.

Either way, George is just itching to be sent out on a field mission, however menial it may be; he just wants to get out of his damn office for once and earn his pay cheque by doing something other than staring at his computer screen all day.

His last mission had wrapped up about a month ago, with him successfully managing to unearth a plot to hack into one of England’s most prestigious trust fund companies and steal millions of people’s treasured sterling pounds tucked away for holidays, mortgages and all things in between.

Of course, no one outside of the company actually knows of George’s achievements, a spy by trade and every mission leaving him sworn to utmost secrecy.

Not that he’d particularly like all of that undivided attention anyway. One of the main reasons he actually enjoys his job is the mystery of it all and the independence he has when working on a mission alone, where he can choose to do things in the best way _he_ thinks possible without having to console anyone else.

George likes trusting his own instincts. Not doing so has landed him in deep trouble once before.

An out of tune _‘ding’_ finally announces the elevator’s arrival, the doors sliding open to finally reveal a more modern setting. 

The light-backed glass walls always appear near-futuristic to George upon entry to the central room of the headquarters, cut into geometric squares that spill onto the floor and under his feet. 

Overhead, the lights are industrially bright, covering every square inch of the large room scattered with neatly organised desks. George stands idly to for a couple of seconds whilst he watches the people he’s just spent about two minutes pressed against spill out of the exit of the elevator and take their seats.

This is the surveillance floor, riddled with hundreds of people working on thousands of jobs each day, glued to screens and telephones, with the satisfying sound of computer keys bouncing around the walls.

At the far end of the room, and directly opposite where the elevator opens out into, is the Director’s office. Similarly cast in glass, the light pours into a simple room with no more than a desk, a computer and a couple of extra chairs.

Upon studying it, George is suddenly jerked back into action from within the depths of the elevator and manages to slip out quickly before the doors close again, convinced half the buttons on the inside fail to work correctly if he were to get shut in.

Then he’s discarding his half-finished coffee, straightening his tie in the reflection of the glass on one of the walls and flexing his grip on the black binder he holds in his hands as pleasant tingles reach his fingers.

A meeting with the Director.

That’s what his schedule had shown when he read through it this morning. George distinctly remembers the excited shivers that had travelled down his spine at the appearance of these words alone.

A meeting with the Director only means one thing... _a new mission_.

The soles of his smart, black leather shoes make no noise as he pivots himself around to face the straight path that leads up to the entrance of the office, lit by clear strips of light and bracketed by neat rows of pale office cubicles.

George unbuttons his dark-blue jacket with one hand before swiftly returning to button it up again. He’s never been too sure on the etiquette expected in front of the Director; he’s been friends with him for years before the slightly older man had been promoted to his current role... is formality even required?

He ends up leaving it buttoned all the same as he passes by numerous desks, striding across the spotless floor and thinking about the many levels that stretch deep down underneath his feet. 

At the very bottom resides the computer and technology department, which as one can imagine these days is perhaps the most important, and is in fact where George had started his career within MI5 in the first place, being hired straight out of uni after finishing top of his class.

When they soon realised that his skills with computers where not only spectacular, but his strategy and aim was too, George was later trained as a field agent. Which, of course, he was absolutely ecstatic about, and still is to this day.

Just below where his feet are walking currently lies the training gym for all sorts of things you can imagine an agent may encounter and where George is already planning to visit next if he is to be sent back out to the field after a month out of action. He still never misses though.

The silver steel of the door handle is cold to touch as George pulls it open with a satisfying and clinical clicking sound.

Situated at the desk inside, looking very focused and busy before he glances upwards and acknowledges him, is the Director of MI5. 

Or, as George previously had known him, his good friend Sam.

Sam waves to the leather seat before him vaguely as he finishes up a phone call.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine... Agent 404 is here now. I’ll send someone down about it later,” 

George slides his fingers over the lines of the thin binder he still carries before setting it on the desk before him and unbuttoning his suit jacket again.

“Thank you, that’d be great. I’ll call you back.”

Normally, as soon as his friend hangs up the phone at work, he switches from his stern and decisive tone of voice to one that is softer, more rounded at the edges and only reserved for his close friends.

George knows it must be bad when this isn’t what occurs, Sam offering him no form of a greeting greater than an acknowledging nod, which he returns, at a loss for better words.

“Problem?”

He finally asks as he shifts back against the leather of the chair and sits himself upright.

“Big problem.”

Is all Sam sighs out before placing the phone in his hands back on the desk to rub at both his eyes. From their redness, George can guess quite assuredly that the other is running on very few hours of sleep, which only adds to his concern. 

The top button of his friend’s white shirt is loosened underneath his black tie, the usual glowing rosiness of his cheeks has faded and there’s a distinct lack of a toothy grin plastered across his cheeks. 

Sam places his hands back onto the edge of the desk, gripping onto it as he begins carefully, “We have a missing agent in the field.”

George’s brain immediately flicks through everyone he’s currently aware of tasked with a mission and their last known locations, many abroad and largely out of reach, even for a rescue mission.

“Where?” 

He asks, tapping his foot habitually against the glass floor, careful of not asking who, rather keen on preventing his emotions from clouding his judgement before making a tactical decision.

“Up North.”

Sam answers with a sighed breath; George is relieved by the revelation that the mission is domestic, within their own borders and restrictions, making access to resources and funding a million times easier. 

He also can’t say he really ever fancies the trips to the frozen peaks of distant mountains or travelling to the heart of sweltering, humid rainforests either.

Sam checks the papers in front of him and George’s eyes attentively follow his movements.

“His last communication was received approximately a week ago when the agent reported his location and nothing else.”

It’s certainly concerning, but George reckons there must be a whole lot more to this if Sam has apparently lost so much sleep over this issue.

“The agent in question was tracking the imports of a notorious crime syndicate from the USA that are suspected to be responsible for more international offences than we can even begin to count.”

“ _Oh_ ,” That catches George’s attention, “So the agent is CIA?”

Sam, himself, had first started off in their sister organisation in the US before transferring over to the UK and MI5. 

“Yes,” The older tells him, leaning his elbows forward on the desk and moving closer towards George, “It’s their case, technically, but we have to get involved seeing as it’s within our jurisdiction.”

George is nodding his head, listening intently and already documenting the information into his mind. When he glances back up at Sam’s momentary silence, he finds him waiting to meet his eyes.

“So... it won’t be just you on this case.”

His brow furrows tightly of its own accord before the cogs in George’s brain are rapidly whirring. He _really_ doesn’t like the way Sam has said that; like he already knows George is going to hate what he’s going to say next.

“Oh— please don’t tell me...”

“Hey _Georgie_ ,”

A smooth and low voice, tinged with a very _American_ accent confirms all of his worst nightmares, “Long time no see.”

He knows exactly who has waltzed through the door before he even makes the effort to turn his head. 

Agent Dream, CIA. 

A living legend and the best of the best within the American agency. Also, George’s least favourite person in the world.

Sam is giving him a firm raise of his eyebrows as the other agent slides out the chair from beside George to sit down. He knows it’s sent his way purposefully to warn him to behave, Sam being well acquainted with his lengthy rants every time he’s been forced to coordinate with Agent Dream in the past.

So, George presses his lips together and bites his tongue for now, for Sam’s sake and sanity more than anything, as he tracks the taller man’s moments beside him as he seats himself.

Dream’s hair is an annoyingly shiny gold, tinted with strands of dark blond that are only visible under harsh, industrial lights. His jaw is prominent and sharp, leading upwards towards tanned cheeks and the splattering of freckles that splays across his nose and under his eyes.

His lashes are long and thick, narrowing against his emerald-green eyes every time he takes a moment to think and analyse on a mission. George has noticed that before.

As he tucks the chair in forward slightly, George’s eyes are drawn to the tanned and veiny backs of his hands by the glint of light that catches his eye, reflecting off of the stupid, metallic smiley cufflinks Dream always insists on wearing. 

The taller is rarely found without them as much as George is seen without a blue tie. He wonders if there’s meaning behind them, like the way he, himself, consistently wears blue because it’s the brightest colour he can actually properly see.

 _Probably not_ , George finds himself thinking, mentally tutting and fiddling with the cuff of his own suit jacket absentmindedly. 

Although Dream is undoubtedly good at his job and getting things done, one of the things George detests the most about him is _the way_ in which he goes about getting said things done. 

The other man has always appeared to him to act on impulse, a polar opposite to George’s method of listening to his intuition and meticulously planning out every single little detail before executing a mission.

Not only that, but Agent Dream is loud and confident ( _cocky_ is perhaps a better word), and always seems to find time out of his day to tease George relentlessly, which he most certainly does _not_ appreciate.

George takes his job very seriously, especially since all the drama MI5 was put into a few years back, but he always finds Dream to be frustratingly nonchalant about, well, _everything_ , leaning into his ‘happy-go-lucky’ personality all too much for George’s liking.

“So sorry I’m late, Sam.”

Dream’s voice pulls George back into the room and away from all the information that he has apparently kept tucked away in the far corners of his brain, it being four months since he’d last had to correspond with Dream. 

He had been in America at the time for a case and working out of an office in the CIA’s headquarters in Florida. He’d been having an amazing time so far, catching up with a few other agents that he had run into on previous missions, until a very tall and golden-haired man had come to collect him to take him to his meeting with the American Director.

This was, of course, Agent Dream, and he has not since stopped teasing George about the embarrassing shade of red he had blushed when Dream had jokingly flirted with him the entire journey there.

George had blamed it on Florida’s heat at the time. In fact, he still does.

“It’s fine Agent Dream, I’m sure you’ve been briefed on the situation mostly already.”

“Only the primary details.”

It’s only when Dream’s eyes flick over in his direction that George realises he’s definitely been staring at the other man for too long. 

Dream’s eyes seem to brighten with mirth when he catches him, scrunching-up at the sides and accompanying the expression that almost always is found spread across his face, his trademark smirk.

Darting his gaze away quickly and feeling an unwelcome heat rising to his cheeks, George shifts uncomfortably in his chair and bites into the inside of his cheek before focusing back on Sam. 

“What do we need to know?”

He’s doing everything in his power not to roll his eyes right now, catching Dream cross one of his legs over the other in the chair and lean himself against the backrest, stretching. 

George grips the chair a little tighter as he waits for Sam’s answer; if he was going to have to share this mission with Dream of all people, he wants to know every possible tiny detail so he can maybe minimise contact as much as possible.

Having been pulling up some files on his computer, Sam turns the screen round to face Dream and George as he begins to explain, pointing with his cursor.

“The last location sent by the agent corresponds with this area,”

George leans in closer, sure he’s missing something because there’s not really much to see on the screen apart from a bird’s-eye view of various treetops. 

Beside him, Dream appears just a puzzled, leaning forwards on the desk braced by one hand and scrutinising the image with analytical eyes. George nearly thrusts himself away from the desk when he can practically feel Dream’s warmth emanating from beside him, deciding all of a sudden that they are way too close.

He covers up his hasty movement by posing a question, “What are we looking at, exactly?”

Sam lets out a curt sigh like the exact same question has been troubling him.

“Well, as you can see, the entire area is shrouded in woodlands so it rendered the flyover I ordered useless,” 

Gripping the screen with a large hand, Sam turns it back around to face him and continues typing away as he speaks.

“Of course there’s nothing to be found on Google Maps or anything either... the area’s a blank space.”

George feels his heart thumping a little faster; this is the part he loves. The mystery of it all, the theorising and figuring out and the satisfaction of getting to wrap it all up and tie it all together at the end.

“How long will it take?”

Dream chimes in from beside him, eyeing George from the side when he refuses to turn his head to meet his gaze, and then focusing back on Sam.

“We’re sending you for an initial sweep of the area first, but depending on what you find there, and if you don’t find our Agent...”

The implication is clear. They could be stuck up there together for quite a while. George is starting to struggle with his promise about holding his tongue.

“But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Sam finishes, staring directly and expectantly at George for him to remain silent; he just about manages, gripping onto the arms of his chair and breathing a deep breath out.

Dream pipes up again as Sam finally finishes finding what he was searching for on the system, fingers slowing against the keys.

“Who is the Agent, may I ask?”

George is a little taken aback by his question, having already assumed they may not even be allowed to know if said Agent is deep undercover, but then again he supposes that’s Dream through and through: not afraid to push the boundaries.

There’s a light ‘creak’ as Sam simply turns the monitor to face them again. Much to George’s surprise, he’s met with a partially familiar face.

_Agent Sapnap_

He reads under the photo of a young man with light-brown hair and a prominent, square jaw. The Agent’s eyes are round and kind, and carry the same brightness that George vividly remembers encountering briefly when he visited the CIA’s headquarters.

Then his heart sinks a little as he reads the next line.

_Current location: MIA_

He really had liked the guy, and that certainly doesn’t apply to just anyone for George.

Tapping his fingers against the sides of his chair and thinking, George is about to ask Sam to have all the files sent over to him when he begins to notice that Dream hasn’t moved for a while. 

Not wanting to catch his deep, green eyes again, George steers clear of his face at first, glancing down at the hand laid out on the armrest nearest him. 

Where it had been lazily lying before, it now grips so hard that the shine of Dream’s knuckles are tinged a pale white. George can feel his brows pulling together minutely as intrigue finally gets the better of him and he draws his eyes upwards to land on the taller man’s face.

But there’s no expression there to find, merely a blankness as he stares across at the screen. It’s perhaps all the more disconcerting for George, having always known Dream as a man who clearly wears his heart on his sleeve.

His mouth is dry when he goes to speak. He wets it, gathering the impression that Dream isn’t going to say anything any time soon.

“Could I have all the files sent over?”

George inclines his head to the screen when he speaks in a small nod. Thankfully, Sam does what he thought he would and spins it back around to send them straight away. 

Using the excuse of scratching the side of his head, George steals a glance at Dream beside him and surprises himself with how relaxed he feels when the other agent appears himself again, leaning back lavishly in his chair and requesting Sam do the same for him.

“I’ll have all the minor details sent over to both of you too, and the rendezvous point for tomorrow.”

George nods, running a hand through his short hair and suppressing a gut-wrenching sigh. Dream’s reaction is quite the opposite, chirpily thanking Sam alongside an exclamation of “Great!” before announcing he should make a call with the American Director to update him.

Sam waves him away vaguely with a grateful and tired smile, seeming quite glad that he’s finally getting things sorted out. Dream stands himself upright suavely, straightening his jacket and pulling down his sleeves over the glint of his obnoxious cufflinks before turning on his heels to exit the office.

George tracks his actions with his eyes, relieved at the knowledge that the other is finally exiting the room, however, Dream always finds a way to get under his skin, turning back around before the door at just the right moment to catch his gaze and supply him with a frustratingly smug wink.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, sunshine.”

Involuntarily, George feels the back of his neck prickle at the use of the nickname Dream seems to have taken to using around him since his brief stay at the American office.

He can only narrow his eyes as he replies, mockingly drawing out the syllables of his codename, “See you tomorrow, _Dream_.”

George watches his eyes gleam and the crux of his smirk pull impossibly higher before Dream is swiftly exiting the room, reaching into his back pocket, presumably for his phone.

When the door has finally clicked shut behind him, George places his head in one of his hands leaned up on the desk, emitting a low whine.

“George, _please_ just try and play nice.”

Sam is watching him carefully as he peeps one eye open to peer across the desk.

“I’ll work with anyone,” He complains in a high tone as he forms a pleading gesture with his hands, “Literally anyone but him.”

The older man rolls his eyes, having heard half of this already before and being fully aware of how childish his friend’s feud is. 

“Agent Dream is who the Americans decided to send over here. I have no control over that,”

George knows this, but he continues whining pitifully all the same, fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket.

“C’mon, it’ll probably only take a couple of days or so, anyway. And hopefully it will stop that American Director from breathing down my neck now that something’s finally being done.”

George looks upwards into his friend’s pleading eyes and then sits back in his chair, still making sure to take the time to cross his arms across his chest loosely just to further convey his displeasure with the current situation.

“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” He promises, holding Sam’s eyes for a couple of seconds so he knows that he really does mean it.

After a brief moment, George finally breathes out again and twists his head slightly over his shoulder to capture the tall figure of the man currently pacing leisurely back and forth in front of Sam’s glass office, taking animatedly on the phone, in his view.

When he somehow accidentally manages to connect their eyes again and George fails to back down in time, the other only meets his gaze with a teasing raise of one cocked eyebrow.

He can’t help it this time, an audible sigh escapes his lips.

“I can’t make any promises about Agent Dream, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! 
> 
> this chapter was quite introductory because this is a plot based fic but i promise there’s so much more to come :)) <3


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream and George investigate Agent Sapnap’s last known location... it’s safe to say that it’s certainly _not_ what either of them are expecting to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the love already on this fic!! it truly means a lot to me <3
> 
> this chapter is longer than the first and really gets the plot going- i really like it, hope you guys enjoy :))

“George.”

At first, George purposefully doesn’t respond to his name in the hopes that whoever it is that is currently lightly shaking his shoulder will soon give up and allow him to fall back asleep, but, unfortunately, this does not appear to be the case.

“C’mon, we’re nearing the location. Wake yourself up.”

The melodic timbre of an all-too-familiar voice is what ends up ejecting George out of his comfortable slumber. He sits up straight in his seat of the car so quickly that all the blood ends up rushing to his head, dizzying him.

This is really _not_ a good start to the mission so far.

“Hmm?”

He enquires, even though he’d heard Dream perfectly clearly the first time, merely looking to bide more time for his mind and body to properly awaken.

“The coordinates,” 

Dream starts again, patiently watching George just as much as he watches the road ahead as the latter takes the opportunity to scowl at the golden-haired man’s pleased face.

“They’re just up ahead. We’ll be getting out soon.”

“Okay, good.”

George answers as he rubs excess sleep out of his eyes and stifles the yawn that erupts out of him the best he can with his hands. He may dislike the man sitting beside him, but he would never let it get in the way of his work. 

Not when there’s so many people to let down.

There’s an uneasiness in his chest that tells him Dream’s gaze is still partially fixed on him, watching. Instinctively, and without looking over to the other, George shuffles in his seat only to be reminded of his own current discomfort.

They had both mutually agreed it best to approach the location undercover as they have no idea what they’ll be encountering when they arrive. 

The trousers George has been supplied with are way too tight for his liking; skinny jeans, instead of his preferred looser fit when he does indulge in casual wear. 

He looks good in them, no doubt, and he _knows_ that. But, for the love of God, why can’t fashionable clothes be any sort of comfortable too?

Paired with his black, skinny jeans is a rather baggy, oversized white top that scoops lowly across his chest, exposing the dips of his prominent collarbones. This, he doesn’t mind so much, the fabric being cotton and soft against his skin, loosely tucked into the waist and of his jeans.

Over the top, he wears a light-blue denim jacket laced with a fur collar and it’s so warm that George is already mentally making a note to try and steal it when the mission ends (which will be soon, hopefully.)

George fiddles with the hem of his jacket sleeve and he watches the trees glide by him outside the window. The last time he had had his eyes open, they had been hurtling down a motorway at seventy miles per hour; the bright green of the forest and the peace and quiet, save for a few chirps of a bird, makes a welcome juxtaposition.

Dream’s fingers tapping against the steering wheel draw his attention over to his side of the car and then George remembers why he was avoiding the sight in the first place.

A tight grey t-shirt stretches across the other’s chest, decorated only in the middle by the thin, gold necklace he wears, the small pendant connected to it shimmering brightly in the sun. 

Over this and across the taller man’s mightily broad shoulders, stretches a black leather jacket that cuts sharp angles in all the right places. The buckles and zips flashing light into George’s eyes make him suddenly very aware of the fact that he is _staring_ , and he shifts his gaze back to the greenery outside.

George is thinking about how he would really quite like to have some words with whoever styled Dream’s undercover disguise when, after rounding one final corner, a large, cream-coloured building rolls into view.

Breath catches in his throat as his hand moves on instinct to finger the outline of his gun where it currently resides, tucked into the side of the waistband of his jeans.

He flicks his wide eyes over to Dream to check that he’s spotted the imposing structure coming up on the right. The concentrated, olive-green gaze he’s met with tells him that he has.

A small nod shared between them is the only thing needed to agree to proceed with caution, Dream bringing the car to crawl at an even slower pace than they already were on the mud track, country road they’ve been following for a while now.

“Agent Sapnap’s last location...”

Dream speaks lowly and carefully as they pull up beside the tall, iron-cast gate it resides behind, bracketed by brick wall, flicking his eyes between the GPS leading them and the blocked road ahead. If George squints hard enough, he can just about make out a collection of cars that appear to be parked down the side of the building.

“The exact coordinates, they’re somewhere behind that gate.”

“Fuck.”

George sighs out as the back of his head hits the headrest. It’s barely been a couple of hours and this mission has already become more intricate than it ever seemed to be, and the more intricate the mission, George supposes, the longer the amount of time he must spend up here, alone, with Dream.

“Well, let’s try buzzing the intercom.”

He suggests, pointing with his hand low to his chest to the small square of metal fixed into the wall beside the gate. 

Dream hums as he drives the car to bring them at the foot of the tall gates. George licks his dry lips as he watches the other roll down his window and hit the only button present underneath a built-in speaker.

His hand is becoming slightly sweaty from where it’s tucked under the fur of his jacket and still resting upon his gun, but George is taking no chances, constantly checking their surroundings, particularly behind, as Dream keeps his head partially out of the window to lean and listen.

There’s a loud crackle that jumps the rate of George’s heart momentarily, before a tinny voice can be heard from the speaker.

“Good afternoon. Do you have a booking?”

Dream whips his head around quickly to face George, dark eyes conveying perfectly how ominous their current situation is. He raises his eyebrows as he widens his eyes a little, silently asking George what he thinks they should do.

George can’t give up his own simple intrigue for the life of him, and so only inclines his head towards the intercom to encourage the other to reply.

“Uh— no, I’m afraid, but we’d like to make one.”

Heart racing, racing, racing as they wait for a reply, or maybe even a gun to their heads, George taps his fingers against the barrel of his own as his eyes trace the sharp line of Dream’s clenched jaw.

“That’s fine, sir. Please proceed down the driveway, the gates will now open.”

A loud clang sounds as the presumably rather old gates begin to slowly swing open. The intercom clicks as if the person Dream was talking to on the other side has already hung up, and George finds himself sharing an equally confused look with the other agent as their eyes meet across the car.

That was surprisingly easy. 

Too easy for George’s liking. 

His hand is still on his gun.

Dream accelerates the car into a slow crawl once again, his hands shifting against the steering wheel as their apparent destination creeps closer and closer and gravel crunches under the wheels of the car.

It doesn’t take more than a minute before they find themselves in the midst of a relatively full car park. George immediately notices they are all rather expensive and finds relief in the fact that they’re currently driving in the latest Jaguar model, fast enough to pursue any vehicle in a high speed chase and still look sleek doing it.

There’s no sign of any other human activity for them to find any indication of how they should currently be acting and what they should do next.

“Should I just park up?” Dream asks. 

George finds himself nodding, unable to draw his eyes away from the back of the imposing structure before them. He dreads to think what they’ll find when they round the front by foot.

Strategically, Dream parks the Jag in the far-most corner of the car park, away from where most of the other cars seem to be conjugated and close enough to the exit for a hasty getaway.

The dull rumble of the engine cuts out as Dream extracts the key and spins it round on his finger using the key ring, fiddling, as they both take a moment to see if anything else is about to happen, but there’s no movement.

“I think we’ll just have to brave it and walk in there, sunshine,” 

Dream’s eyes flick over to him, low and lidded, and make George aware of the fact that he’s apparently been staring at the other’s face again.

“Got your gun?”

George resists the temptation to indulge Dream’s teasing by rolling his eyes.

“Yes, of course I’ve got it.”

He sends him a flamed look that clearly poses the question, ‘Who do you take me for?’, but Dream only quirks a small smirk in reply.

Tanned hands are raised in a position of surrender as he adds, “Just checking.”

They sit a little longer in a heavy silence, watching and waiting until George crumbles it, unable to stop himself from posing the question that almost always troubles his mind around Agent Dream.

“Why do you do that?”

When he gets no reply immediately, George drags his gaze away from the luxurious cars parked before him in favour of taking in the sight of the man seated next to him.

He catches Dream just as he’s checking the magazine loaded in his gun. There’s a satisfying ‘click’ as Dream slides it back into place and holds George’s careful gaze.

“Do what?”

Very much having preferred not to have to spell it out for the other man, George feels his cheeks beginning to flush a detestable scarlet red as he elaborates.

“The _thing_ —“ Dream just raises his eyebrows at that amusedly, George narrows his eyes at him in a frustrated glare, “Call me... ‘sunshine’.”

His nose wrinkles up as he recites the name. He sees Dream follow the movement with his eyes and he’s pretty sure his smirk lifts impossibly higher into his tanned cheeks.

“Why?” Dream tilts his head slightly to the side, the leather of his dark jacket gleaming under the sun and making George feel hot, “D’you not like it?”

The question catches him off guard and flusters him. He has to drop his gaze from Dream’s glistening green eyes before he can even take a breath again, staring instead at the console in the middle of the car.

“I— uh. No, it’s not that—“

He curses Dream internally for causing this jumbling of words, a direct product of his equally as jumbled mind. _What is he even trying to say?_

He doesn’t. He doesn’t like the way the syllables of _‘sunshine’_ roll of off Dream’s tongue, or the tingling sensation they shoot down his spine, always catching him off guard.

George despises being around Agent Dream because he’s the only one who seems capable of doing so. 

Always researching and planning for the future, George likes to know what lies ahead and what may come back some day to bite him in the ass. 

With Dream (George has had to learn this the hard way), there is no such possible way to do this. No way to anticipate the other man’s movements or how he may react to what George is going to say.

With Dream, George is practically flying blind, and he hates it.

When he looks up again Dream is still looking to catch his gaze. _Fuck_ , is he supposed to be responding?

The cogs in his mind begin to slowly turn again and he’s very close to recapturing their topic of conversation with when a car door of a Rolls Royce glides open soundlessly.

A short gasp escapes his lips as he reaches over to Dream’s side of the car to tap him and make sure he’s also watching what he’s seen, unwilling to rip his eyes away from their, perhaps, only possible lead so far.

He doesn’t think too much of it until he feels the soft leather of Dream’s jacket against his hand, the slow and steady rise of his chest underneath, the pulse of his heart, and George jerks his hand away from the other like he’s burned him. 

George doesn’t dare slide his eyes over to the other man’s, knowing that what he will find is that glint Dream gets in his eyes when he’s around him. Always looking for an opportunity to tease.

Physically shaking his head for a moment to clear it, George focuses instead on the mission at hand, carefully tracking the movements of the gentleman who has just exited the car.

To their relief, the man is dressed casually, in nothing but a simple white t-shirt and black jeans. It wouldn’t have been a problem if he had been dressed formally, however, as both of their suitcases, packed with a large range of clothes to fit a large variety of situations, are still situated in the back of the car.

George doesn’t want to think about how changing in front of or beside Dream would have gone, however. The thought alone makes his throat dry.

The man with the Royce appears to be about thirty. A little young, George finds himself thinking, to be in possession of such an expensive vehicle, but he apparently is all the same.

His face is decorated with long dark hair and a neat beard, George notices, as he opens up the back of his car and digs around in it. 

George is about to say something to Dream when there’s the sound of another car door opening and, from the same Rolls Royce, George watches as a blonde-haired woman emerges, draped in a floral-pattered summer dress.

She joins the bearded man at the back of the car and helps him lift what he had apparently been searching for. George squints his eyes and leans forward in his seat when he finally gets a glimpse of what it is.

His brow furrows without his permission and he’s turning over a number of possibilities in his mind as Dream states the obvious under his breath.

“George. They have suitcases.”

This time, he doesn’t even bother refraining from rolling his eyes.

“Yes, I can _see_ that, Dream.”

He replies through gritted teeth, still watching the couple with a focused gaze.

“Well, isn’t it kind of perfect that we have suitcases we can bring too?”

_Oh_ , George halts his inner monologue about Dream’s idiocy momentarily to consider his point before deciding that he’s probably right.

They may have no idea what this mysterious couple are actually dragging behind them _in_ their suitcases as they walk away from their car, but at least their appearance with a suitcase in hand would surely allow them to fit in for long enough to find out what the hell is going on.

George snaps his eyes over to meet Dream’s, excited at the plan that’s slowly formulating in his mind, as he instructs, “Quick, get the suitcases out of the back. We need to follow them in.”

Dream nods as he thinks for a second longer, playing with the car key wrapped around his fingers, before he nods diligently and climbs out of the car.

Once they’ve succeeded in heaving their full-to-the-brim suitcases onto the asphalt ground and completed a quick three-sixty of the car to ensure that nothing that could blow their cover has been left behind, George leads them hastily after the couple they had watched disappear around the corner of the imposing building.

George’s steps drum along to the beat of his heart, faster and faster and faster as they near the next corner to reach the front.

He checks intermittently to see if Dream is sufficiently watching their six. Every time he turns, he finds that the other man is watching carefully over his shoulder behind them.

The sight that slides into view as they continue following the brick path underneath their feet is humongous, but rather than being so in an intimidating way, George is surprised to find that it’s more _luxurious_.

George pivots on his foot slightly to check Dream’s expression and to assure himself that he hasn’t gone bloody mad from being cooped up in a car with a man who drives him completely up the wall for two hours.

But no, Dream’s expression is very much similar to how George currently expects his own to be: mouth partially agape, eyes blown wide and eyebrows raised into his forehead.

This is not what either of them had expected to find at all.

The walls are brick, patterned with crawling ivy, and stretch further outwards than George’s eyes can even see. The entire building seems to be shielded under the thick canopy of the trees, shades of evergreen replacing the sky. 

Now that George thinks about it, the car park had been massively shielded by the treetops too, which is probably why the flyover Sam ordered a couple of days previously hadn’t shown any signs of the enormous structure situated before him.

There’s stairs leading up to a surprisingly modern-looking, revolving door. If George strains his eyes a little to glance inside, he can see a lobby-type room that appears to have been refurbished too.

The windows are grand, made of a great, white-painted wood and styled in a fashion from an era that George can’t name. The large glass panes are thick and doubled glazed, bouncing sunlight that manages to creep past the thick tree canopy back into his eyes.

When some of the breath re-enters his lungs and his eyes have returned more or less back to their normal state of neutrality, George’s gaze is soon attracted to a large sign engraved into one of the walls bracketing the stairs before them.

The writing is in smooth italics, pleasing to look at until George reads what it actually says.

_You’ve go to be kidding me_.

That’s the only thought rolling around his mind as he continues to stare longingly at the letters in front of him as if if he scrutinises them for long enough, they’ll morph into something more desirable.

George daren’t glance behind him to see if Dream has clocked the sign too, but the grinding of his suitcase’s wheels to a halt informs him that the other man surely has.

_**Welcome to Golden Sunset Couple’s Retreat!** _

_**We hope you enjoy your stay.** _

He must have the worst bloody luck in the world.

George already knows Dream is definitely going to enjoy this way too much, because he knows what comes next and is entirely aware of what they’re probably going to have to do.

Licking his lips quickly in an effort to stop himself from biting into his bottom one, George shifts his stance against the pristine brick pavement. He then continues to loosen his grip on the handle of his suitcase, having realised that his knuckles have slowly been tinging an alarming shade of white.

Being assigned on a mission with Agent Dream, the CIA’s most notorious flirter, is one thing, but going under cover? And not only that, but as a _couple?_

George is having a hard time processing this all. 

But, an Agent’s life could possibly be at risk, and George must admit that he’s even more invested in the mystery of this mission now because what _on earth_ does a luxury resort have to do with a crime syndicate? And-

“I wonder why this place doesn’t show up on any maps.”

He had almost forgotten about Dream’s presence for a short while, lost in the investigative spiral of his mind. The taller’s voice is low and sounds a lot closer, lips positioned not so far from George’s ear as he looms over him from behind. His breath is warm.

George has been thinking exactly the same, and so supplies him with his own deductions, muttered under his breath, “It’s probably privately owned, ‘members only’, or something like that.”

Dream hums softly in agreement. It feels almost like a low rumble in the wind from behind him as George begins to hear movement from his direction again. 

Perhaps a little more mentally prepared, now that George is aware that Dream seems to be treating the situation with least some professionalism, he releases a deep exhale as he turns his head to observe the other man beside him.

Though, in hindsight, he should have known this would be a bad idea, because Dream is glancing over at him with the most playful and knowing grin George has ever seen. 

There’s a new type of glint in his eyes that George is not sure he’s seen before either... not that... not that he looks at Dream’s eyes _often_ or anything. Definitely not. Only enough to notice their impurities in the forms of speckled, light brown flecks.

“We should head back to the car,” George supplies quickly, speaking clearly in case they’re being listened-to, or watched, “I think I left my phone behind.”

Dream catches what he truly means quickly, only nodding in reply, although his smug grin hasn’t damped an inch; they need to talk this over more, get their stories straight and report back to Sam ASAP. The only place they currently know is safe enough to do this is the car.

When they turn to leave, however, they are immediately greeted with the large and round face of a rather over-eager gentleman dressed in a deep, royal-blue bellhop uniform. 

George stumbles back a little at the force he has to use to stop himself from moving and avoid crashing into the man. It’s Dream’s arm that saves him ultimately, wrapping around his waist and digging tightly into his side to stop him from toppling over.

He catches the taller’s fleetingly concerned expression for a few excruciating seconds before he’s taking more interest in the man standing before them that he presumes is some sort of employee. Either that or he has an extremely eccentric fashion taste.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen! May I help you carry your bags?”

Stumped for a split second, George gazes up at Dream briefly before deciding he’s taken too long to answer already and just about manages to spew out a response.

“I— uh, not just yet, I’m afraid,” He’s announcing each syllable in every word and has plastered, what he hopes, is a convincingly sheepish smile onto his face, “I seem to have left my phone in the car.”

George is suddenly so very aware of just how _trapped_ he and Dream now currently are, locked-in behind iron gates and shackled under social expectation. 

Something about this whole place just feels... _off_. It probably has something to do with the knowledge that Agent Sapnap seemingly disappeared from somewhere around here less than a week ago, he supposes.

“Oh, Sir, is that not your phone in your pocket?”

George glances downwards, removing one hand from his suitcase to pat his jacket until he finds where his phone is indeed poking out of his pocket.

_Shit_.

“Oh— uh, yes it is! Sorry about that, I’m always misplacing things.”

He’s shooting glances to Dream again, a little pleadingly this time, but the expression he receives in reply alongside a shrug of his shoulders is just as helpless. 

The man is already reaching for Dream’s bag as he asks his next question, the side-glance the taller gives him just tells him to go along with it for now. They really have no other choice now; no way out, if they don’t want to blow their cover, and they still have a missing agent to locate too.

“Is this your first time booking in?”

George’s heart is beating too fast for his liking. Normally, he’s calmer under pressure, but that’s when he’s planned all of his movements to a T and knows what’ll surely be around the corner.

He and Dream are flying blind, unable to discuss any sort of relevant cover beforehand, and now they have to navigate at least one entire conversation this way.

Letting Dream answer, feeling like he’s already done entirely too much talking, George is barely listening as the porter collects his suitcase as well and leads them both up the stairs. 

“Yes, it is.”

They follow the man, Dream taking the steps two at a time with his long legs and George slightly lagging behind, his brain still not back to full functioning because so _much_ has just happened in the span of five minutes.

“I can assure you’ll enjoy your stay. We supply only the best for our selective patrons.”

At least they appear to have been right about one thing, George finds himself thinking, as he’s then ushered into the gold-plated revolving door alongside Dream. This place _is_ exclusive.

Their shoulders brush as they walk forwards within it and enter into a lavish room that can only be presumed to be reception. 

“If you’d like to check in at the desk, I’ll get these bags sent up to your room as soon as possible.”

“Thank you very much.” Dream replies with a polite grin shot the balding gentleman’s way.

George suddenly realises that the other hasn’t been masking his American accent and immediately begins wondering if he should have. Either way, it’s definitely too late now.

The off-white marble floor shines cleanly under their feet as they make their way forward to one of the two receptionists. The other, George notes, is currently occupied talking to the couple they had seen exiting the Rolls Royce and is talking animatedly to them. He can’t help but curse at them a little for unknowingly leading them into this mess.

Their receptionist greets them with a friendly-enough smile as he asks how he can help.

“My _fiancé_ and I would like to book a room, please.”

George’s heart stops dead in his chest for a moment before it resumes pounding at an uncomfortably fast rate. He takes back everything about Dream treating the situation in a professional manner, glancing up and beside him, the toothy-grin on the other man’s face tells him that he’s absolutely enjoying every excruciating second of this.

He has half the mind to shift his foot over a little and push down harshly on the other agent’s toes, but he refrains in the meantime, instead, expressing his displeasure where it’s least noticeable in gritting his teeth.

“The name, Sir?”

George finds himself incapable of answering even if he wanted to because Dream has snaked his long arm over the back of his shoulders, tugging his side close against him. 

He hates how the first and only thing he notices is how _warm_ it is.

“Mr. Wastaken.”

Dream must already be using one of his aliases. If George was in his right mind right now, he’d probably be mentally flipping through his own catalogue of identities and selecting the perfect one to play, but their _sides_ are touching now. And despite everything, Dream’s still talking.

He doesn’t catch what the taller says because he’s still working on removing his feet from where they seem to be frozen in place against the cool, marble floor. Dream squeezing his shoulder with the arm that’s still wrapped around his shoulders brings George’s gaze upwards again.

“Everything okay, darling?”

_God_. 

Now he’s just taking the bloody piss, his green eyes gleaming under the dim lighting and watching his own so intensely that George almost feels as though he’s baring him his soul.

George still, somehow, manages to nod and mumble something about being tired and forces himself to lean into Dream’s side instead of away.

The leather of his jacket is smooth against his cheek and smells of the taller’s overpowering cologne. He’s not going to make it through this. George is sure.

“We’ve given you room number twenty-three,” The man behind the desk is explaining as George finds himself biting his cheek, “Breakfast, lunch and dinner are all included of course. You can find the times for these in your welcome package, alongside all the activities we offer here.”

If it weren’t for the ‘pretending to be a couple’ factor and the being here with Agent Dream of all people, George would say it sounds rather alluring and luxurious. In their line of work, breaks don’t come often; no rest for the wicked and all that.

After handing over the room key to Dream, the receptionist points them in the correct direction, a brightly-lit corridor to their right and says something along the lines of hoping they enjoy their stay. George battles hard to hold his tongue at the irony.

Dream’s long arm is still wrapped across his shoulders as they depart from the entryway; George is back to cursing anything and everything that has led him into this situation in his mind. 

Checking behind them quickly after they’ve entered the corridor to assure they’re completely out of view and that there’s no cameras, George abruptly shrugs Dream’s heavy arm off of him and tells himself he doesn’t miss its warmth as he simply continues walking, speeding up towards the sign that points them in the right direction to their room. All he hears emitted from behind him is a small, amused chuckle.

When they finally make it to the door, after what feels like _hours_ to George as they walk closely side by side in the rather narrow corridor, he lets out a partial breath of relief in the knowledge that at least they can drop this stupid charade when they enter inside.

As Dream just drops him another toothy grin, leaning forward to slide the key into the electronic lock, George uses the opportunity to measure the heat of his cheeks with the backs of his hands.

Okay, _yup_. Just as he’d dreaded. 

He’s still blushing an embarrassing shade of pink, he’s sure, from the excess adrenaline still being pumped around his body from the multiple stunts Dream has just pulled. 

The click of their door opening forces George to look forward again, causing him to accidentally capture Dream’s smirked face within his view as he holds the door open and ushers him inside in a gentleman’s manner.

George just gives him a brief scowl and a shake of his head before he crosses the threshold, from marble to soft, cream carpet and brilliant-white walls. 

The room has a refreshing feel, featuring two large windows and a glass door that opens out onto a balcony that’s shrouded by evergreen leaves. One of them is already partially open and George takes in a lungful of fresh air that he believes he very much needs to cool himself down.

Their two suitcases are stacked neatly in the corner of the room, locks confirmed to still be firmly in place after George hurriedly checks with focused eyes.

His heart has even almost managed to return to a more acceptable rate, thumping steadily instead of racing like it wants to burst through his chest like earlier, and he’s about to start talking to Dream about what they’re going to bloody _do_ about all of this, but then it finally catches his eye.

Situated against the wall and thrusting out into the middle of the room with an air of confidence that George recognises well from someone else, is a double bed. A King-sized one, at that.

And he suddenly feels like an idiot because _of course_ there‘s only one bed. It’s a freaking couple’s resort after all... what had he been expecting?

He hates when he’s not being able to think straight, and this is most definitely one of those times. Let it be noted that most of these occasions have also involved the presence of a certain younger, golden-haired man.

As he glances helplessly around the rest of the room, he at least finds some relief in spying a couch that he could sleep on if need’s be, although it’s made of leather and looks like it would stick uncomfortably to his bare skin on a hot night.

He turns back behind him, his mouth still slowly shutting from where it had involuntarily fallen agape, to find Dream has already shut the door behind them and is sifting through the ‘welcome pack’. Then he starts looking under the table it’s situated on.

George is confused for about half a second before he realises that the other is searching for any listening devices or secret cameras and ends up frustrated at the knowledge, once again, that Dream is actually _great_ at his job and amazing to work with when he’s not making stupid jokes at George’s expense.

Belatedly, he joins in, searching thoroughly and even checking the balcony too, but their search turns up nothing of interest. 

With this confirmation now in hand, George flops himself back on the large, white bed and exudes an exhausted sigh. This day is starting to take a toll on his mind, and not to mention his poor _heart_.

Then he snaps his head over to where Dream appears to be enjoying the view out of one of the large windows as he asks him accusingly, although it comes out as more of a whine, “Why did you have to say that we are _’fiancés’_?”

Surely boyfriends would have been good enough? George somehow thinks he would have been able to process that a bit easier.

“It gives us a narrative.” Dream answers simply, as if George has _any_ idea what he’s going on about at all, frowning.

“A what?”

Dream sighs like it’s obvious, turning to face George head-on as he leans back against the window pane. The sunlight that manages to weave its way through the trees catches all of the blond highlights in his hair.

“If someone asks why we’re here, we can just tell them we’re celebrating our engagement.”

“Oh...” George hates to admit it, but again, Dream is being very clever, “Okay, that makes sense.”

The taller watches him closely as he sits up on the bed again, and gains that playful glint in his eyes. 

“Why? Did you want to be _husbands_ instead?”

His tone is low and makes George want to disintegrate on the spot as he watches Dream raise his eyebrows. 

Almost in an act of defence, he finds himself quickly turning away and ignoring the other man’s question altogether, along with the newfound dangerous palpitations in his heart.

“We— we should get some food or something, it’s almost evening now.”

Dream’s still looking at him with that teasing shine in his eyes but sits down on the leather couch across from him as he answers all the same, letting it slide (for now).

Humming in agreement, the dirty-blond seems to consider something for a moment before shuffling through the ‘welcome pack’ George is now only realising he still holds in his hands.

“Here,” Dream announces when he seems to find what he’s looking for, leaning across the gap between them to offer George a laminated sheet of paper, “Let’s order room service. That way we can avoid other people too until we figure our cover story out.”

He nods in agreement and eagerly takes the sheet from the other man, purposely ignoring that when their fingers brush he catches Dream’s smile quirking even further to the side. 

George glances over the menu and immediately finds that it hadn’t been a bad idea to suggest food at all in his efforts to ditch Dream’s teasing because he finds his stomach teetering on the edge of dangerously empty. 

The names of the dishes sound exquisite: every type and cut of meat one can imagine, drizzled and decorated with various sauces and vegetables and sides.

His mouth is already salivating at the mere thought of it and his mind already racing to select those which he prefers, but then he looks at the prices listed beside them.

“My god, it’s expensive.”

George ends up muttering rather loudly without meaning to. He hears an amused puff of breath from Dream’s direction before the menu is snatched out of his hands again.

“Who cares? We’re not the ones paying.”

A disbelieving and exasperated sigh is exhaled by George as he replies, “You know fully well that the agency’s cards are only supposed to be used for _necessities_.”

Dream’s still only sitting there and smiling to himself as he studies the menu closely, flicking over each dish’s description with his bright eyes. 

“I don’t know about you, _Georgie_ , but some ‘Wagyu Tenderloin Steak’ sounds pretty necessary to me right now.”

When their food does finally arrive, pushed into their room on a cart by a short man that George attempts to interact with a little as possible, he immediately regrets being so stubborn.

Dream’s meal is large and succulent, making George’s now admittedly poor choice of a less expensive dish seem puny in comparison. 

However, he is a man of principle, so even when the other man catches him looking and teasingly offers him a bite (or maybe seriously, George honestly couldn’t tell), he refuses, stating he’s already full.

The taller raises his eyebrows like he entirely doubts the truth of George’s claim, but waves him off with an unbothered hand all the same when he announces he’s stepping out onto the balcony to attempt to contact Sam.

The cell reception in this area of thick woodland is, of course, bloody terrible. 

That’s one of the first things they had noticed when driving through the hilly countryside and were soon shrouded by a dark canopy of trees. 

And to top it all off, there’s no bloody Wi-Fi too. 

Something to do with the increased ‘mindfulness’ and ‘wellbeing’ of getting away from the internet. George had almost cackled out a irony-fuelled laugh when he’d read this on a poster in their room because, for him, he’s pretty sure it’s doing the exact opposite.

So, even though it seems as if a phone call of any sorts is out of the question, George spends a good ten minutes composing a lengthy text in supplement for a formal mission update explaining their current, and very unusual, situation. (He thinks it best to leave out the part about almost wanting to strangle Sam for sending him out on this bloody mission in the first place.)

With the reception being so unreliable, George can’t help but feel a little more trapped all of sudden. All they can do now is lie in wait for further orders from one of their superiors and continue to search for Agent Sapnap in the meantime.

As he hits ‘send’ on the text, watching the blue line creep across the top of his screen at a frustratingly slower rate than usual, George hears the large, sliding glass doors open from behind him. The rattling noise makes him jump as he quickly whips his head upwards.

Of course, he’s met with the only familiar face he knows around here (God forbid, he doesn’t know how that has come to be), Dream shooting him a pleasant enough smile before turning around to slide the door shut again behind him.

George had gotten quite used to the peaceful quietness of their own private balcony, seated in one of the two lounge chairs situated there, a small glass-topped table pushed in between them.

He’d been enjoying the lack of company, very much a person used to living within his own thoughts; he had felt a pressure slip from his shoulders as he had slid that very same glass door shut between him and Dream himself moments earlier, suddenly feeling as if it’s easier to breathe deeply again.

However, George surprises himself when he finds he’s not begging mentally for the taller man to leave his side as soon he settles wordlessly into the sun-lounger beside him, both of them sitting in a layered silence as they face into the dawn of the night.

Placing his phone down on the table between them, George finds his mouth moving before his mind even dictates it.

“You know Agent Sapnap quite well, don’t you?”

His tone isn’t accusatory, rather inquisitive. If he’s going to be stuck on this mission with Dream, he’d rather be privy to the full picture.

Dream’s eyes appear a little raw, even vulnerable for a split second, before they’re quickly replaced with a neutral glint and the ghost of a troubled smile.

“How’d you know?”

George turns his head in Dream’s direction, laying his right cheek against cool mesh so he can better judge his gaze. 

Of course Dream would give up an answer without protest. Emotions must be easy for someone like him, someone who wears his heart on his sleeve.

“I saw how you reacted when Sam told us who had gone missing.”

He bites his cheek a little as he waits patiently for Dream to reply, unsure if he’s breached a touchy subject or not.

The other man simply puffs out a small breath, as if amused that he let such an expression slip through. 

George is also highly aware of the fact that his admission implies that he had been looking at _Dream_ rather than the computer screen during Sam’s briefing, but for now, he doesn’t seem to have picked up on that fact.

“I’ve known Sapnap for a long time,” Dream starts, looking up at the sparkling night sky rather than George, “We joined the academy at the same time and trained together... he’s probably my closest friend.”

Feeling the muscles of his face neutralise in sympathy, George simply inclines his head a little, watching Dream silently and simply waiting because he feels like he has more to say.

“I know—,” The other clears his throat as George’s eyes glance down to where his hands are fiddling together, “I know he’ll be alright... he can hold his own. Definitely.”

Solemnly, George thinks he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of his own assurance too, but he doesn’t push him any further. Instead, he suggests they turn in early so that they can wake before the other guests and take a proper look around the place.

Dream nods in agreement and leads them back into their room, George makes sure to lock the door behind them, a true believer that being ‘overly-cautious’ does not exist.

He also starts to believe that his fellow agent might just be starting to take things a little more seriously once again, but then he finds himself standing in between the large and lavish double bed and Dream’s gleaming, green eyes and taller frame and he immediately knows he’s spoken too soon.

“I’m sleeping on the couch.”

He announces with finality as he makes his way over to where his suitcase is now laid, splayed open in the corner of the room and collects a comfortable shirt and pair of shorts to change into and sleep in.

George daren’t look behind him to catch Dream’s expression as he protests, “Oh, come on, sunshine. It’s big enough for about six of us to sleep in!”

The other man is, of course, correct, but George refuses to budge, even when Dream points out the uncomfortableness of leather against skin which he has already spent half the night mentally debating over putting up with.

When he returns from taking a very brief shower and brushing his teeth, George finds Dream already wrapped up in bed, the lights turned low save for one lamp situated on the small table next to his make-shift bed for the night.

Upon closer inspection, George also finds that Dream seems to have been able to locate a spare duvet from somewhere or other in the room too, and has folded it neatly beside a pillow he must’ve donated from his own bed. 

George’s heart doesn’t flutter. 

It’s really doesn’t. 

It’s just the chill of the slightly open window, that’s all.

With a large sigh he settles himself under his covers and turns off the light, plunging the entire room into near-darkness and stealing away the view of Dream’s wild and golden strands of hair peaking out from under the covers from the bed beside him.

It only takes about an hour of tossing and turning, the uncomfortable leather sticking to his hot skin, before George reluctantly gives in and moves as quietly as possible over to the double bed. 

The side nearest to where he was previously sleeping remains unoccupied by Dream. George can’t help but wonder if the other had done so on purpose, snuggling himself down on the opposite side, still leaving the option open to him despite his protests.

Either way, George vows, as he slides himself between the soft, warm sheets and traces his eyes on the exposed back of Dream’s tanned neck, if he hears just one comment about this in the morning from the other, it will be met with a prompt and well-deserved punch in face to balance things.

**Author's Note:**

> updates for this fic will come weekly, thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated ♡
> 
> i’m [ @dreamingogy](https://mobile.twitter.com/dreamingogy) on twitter if you want writing updates or just to say hi!


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